Under Control: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance
Under Control: Chapter 18

I should know better. It’s obvious what Aram’s doing.

This whole fucking situation is just a ploy.

As my fist slams into the Armenian’s face, I feel like I’m floating above myself and looking down on the scene.

The way Sona’s sitting, a smug grin on her face.

She clearly sat with Karine to antagonize her.

The way Aram demanded an apology and insults Karine right in front of me. That was designed to make me react.

And now here I am, reacting.

The worst way possible.

I can’t even blame Karine. I dragged her into this, thinking I could play the game and come out ahead, but I hadn’t properly prepared her. The whole Brotherhood, sisters and wives and brothers, they’re all a bunch of scheming bastards.

Sona knew what she was doing. And Aram did too.

This is exactly what they wanted.

An alliance was a fantasy. A long, slow, drawn-out revenge was never going to happen.

I wanted to get close to them. I wanted to figure out how they worked, where their weaknesses were, what they considered their strengths.

Then I was going to dismantle them little by little before crushing Aram under my boot.

Aram’s nose breaks under my knuckles.

And all my plans change.

The room explodes into chaos. Sona topples backward off her chair with a shriek and goes to check on her brother, making sure he’s not dead. If only I were so fucking lucky. I turn from the downed Armenian boss and grab my wife, pulling her against me and drawing a gun, as the Brotherhood soldiers start shouting and pulling weapons.

My men do the same.

I don’t know who starts shooting first, and it doesn’t matter.

In the close quarters of the country club, it’s a fucking slaughter.

Bullets slam into booths and walls. Woodchips and plaster dust fill the air. Cartridge smoke wafts into my nose, acrid and sharp. I kill a soldier as he tries to block my way. He goes down in a spray of his own blood. The roar of gunfire and screaming men drowns out whatever I’m shouting at my people.

I drag Karine, protecting her with my body, as Anton and a group of my best men form a protective barrier, some kneeling to fire low, others going high, just like they were trained. One goes down in a spray of blood, followed by the gurgle of another choking on his own tongue. Something hot grazes across my calf, but I keep moving. All I can think about is getting Karine out of here and into safety.

There’s blood on the carpet. Blood on the walls. Outside is just as bad: my men are fighting off the Armenians, keeping them pinned to their own cars, as I sprint across the parking lot toward my SUV with my wife slung over my shoulder.

Karine doesn’t struggle. She’s in shock as I practically throw her into the back seat and whirl around. Armenians try to follow, but Anton and I pin them down with gunfire and force them back into cover before they can come outside. My soldiers use the cars and trucks as barriers while they try to kill any enemy they can replace, but soon I send the signal to pull out. The longer we stay here, the more likely we are to lose more men, and this isn’t a stand worth taking.

I get behind the wheel while Anton rolls down the window and keeps shooting. At least two of the SUVs we came with are empty, and I’d guess eight are dead, possibly more. But the Armenians don’t have it any better: I count six corpses outside as I speed away, gunning the engine and hitting the pavement in a spray of sparks from the undercarriage.

“What the fuck was that?” Anton shouts, rolling up the window. He reloads his gun. “What the hell happened?”

“It was bullshit,” I say, glancing at Karine in the rearview mirror. She’s pale and trembling, curled up in a ball, unable to look back. “That whole meeting was just a trap, and we walked right into it.”

“You punched Aram in the fucking face.”

“He insulted my wife.”

“She insulted his sister.”

“His sister insulted her. We can go back and forth like this all day, but the fact remains, the Brotherhood was never going to give me what I wanted.”

“And what did you want, damn it?” Anton’s furious. He never speaks to me like this because he usually knows better.

Blood drips down my socks, and only then do I realize that I’ve been shot.

“I wanted to lure them into a false sense of complacency before slaughtering every single one of them.” I stare at my best friend as my leg begins to hurt like hell. My jaw tightens, and I can see my plans fade and die.

“You’re getting a war instead,” Anton says, turning to look back at Karine. But his eyes go wide. “Fuck, Valentin⁠—”

Something smashes into our SUV and sends us careening into a light pole.

Someone needs to stop honking the fucking horn.

I’m groggy and my head hurts. A dream swims through my brain: Karine in my arms, smiling like she’s having the time of her life. I started a war for her. I set aside my plans because she’d been insulted.

I didn’t know I could be so fucking stupid.

“Valentin!”

Anton’s voice, coming from a distance. “Would you get off the horn?” I mutter. Someone roughly shakes me. Fuck, my skull’s pounding.

“Come on, you fucking asshole, come on.” Anton’s unbuckling my seatbelt. The world begins to resolve itself again.

The airbag is in my lap. I’m slumped forward, bleeding and hurting all over. The car’s wrapped around a light pole and the horn won’t shut the fuck up.

Outside, another car’s steaming in the cool afternoon sun.

And three men are climbing out.

“Shit,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. I turn to look at Karine, but she’s okay. She’s already scrambling for the door, trying to get out. I shove open the driver’s side and nearly fall out onto the sidewalk, and Anton comes after me just as the Armenian soldiers reach our SUV. They break the tinted windows, aiming guns inside at nothing, as I shuffle over to Karine. I grab her wrist and drag her into me, holding her tight.

“You cover her,” Anton says through his teeth. “I’ll take them.”

“There are too many.” I pull my gun and give Karine a look. She’s shaking with terror, and I hate the Armenians for making her feel this way. All the dead, all the blood, none of it compares to my wife’s pain. And I’ll make sure they suffer for that. “I’ll help.”

“You’re a goddamn mess,” Anton snarls.

He’s right: my calf has a long, bloody gash where I was grazed, and I’m bleeding from my forehead where I bashed into the airbag and clipped myself on the steering wheel. I’d also bet I have a couple broken ribs.

“No choice.” I’m in agonizing pain, but I prepare myself to fight anyway. The Armenian soldiers are coming around the car. “Ready?”

Tires scream as another truck comes to a violent stop. There are shouts and screams as guns go off, rough explosions in an otherwise peaceful intersection.

I lift my head and watch as Artemy jumps from the driver’s seat of his vehicle, gun raised, only to take a bullet in the chest. The old man goes down, but his loyal guards keep fighting, and soon the Armenians get overwhelmed.

“We have to move,” I command Anton and Karine.

I surge up and pull Karine after me, barking orders at Artemy’s men. They drag the injured brigadier into the back seat and try to stabilize him as Anton gets behind the wheel. I keep Karine in my lap, holding her tight, and the truck screeches as Anton speeds away from the bloody wreckage of the battle.